


The Broken Heart (It Kens Nae Second Spring)

by grahamhannah53



Series: Second Spring [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Auror Harry Potter, Knotting, M/M, Rimming, Smut, Undercover Missions, abnormal rut behavior, alpha!Harry, except the happy ending is in the next part of the series, omega!Draco, we hate the dursleys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:02:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25448044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grahamhannah53/pseuds/grahamhannah53
Summary: Harry Potter is an Auror, just like he'd always wanted to be... except no one will give him a mission. When he finally gets one (with Draco Malfoy's name on it), he almost wishes he hadn't.Malfoy is everything Harry hadn't expected him to be, and out of the shambles of Harry's common sense arises a friendship that threatens to be more. Can Harry keep his mission secret from Malfoy? And even if he can do that, is it even possible for him to keep his hands off of Malfoy when he offers to help Harry through a rut after learning that Harry is exceptionally aggressive and violent during them?+++++I have already completed this fic, I will be posting once, maybe twice weekly, depending on how well-received it is! I am also working on the second part, and have it half-way written.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Series: Second Spring [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1843201
Comments: 59
Kudos: 458





	1. Be Careful What You Wish For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tbh this was supposed to be a one-shot prequel to the main event (the second work in the series) but. uhm. Things didn't go to plan. So now I have Lots Of Words for you guys! I hope yall enjoy 😁😁❤

Harry Potter had always dreamed of being an Auror, ever since he knew what one was. It just seemed to be the right calling for him, what with his knack for saving the world, the sort of next logical step— and so, after the war and eighth year at Hogwarts, the first thing he and Ron decided to do was turn in their applications to the department, with dreams and aspirations of fighting the good fight dancing behind their eyes. The three years of training it took to make them into men went by quickly, and they had come out with new muscles, smiling faces, and starry eyes, ready to face the world as Junior Aurors Potter and Weasley, the ultimate alpha-beta dream team.

This, however… this was not what they had been expecting at all. 

Firstly, there was no Potter-Weasley dream team— they had been assigned to separate units right off the bat. Ron was assigned to be what Harry figured was the wizarding version of a Muggle beat cop, which wasn’t too bad as far as it went. Sure, it wasn’t all guts and glory like they’d hoped for, but at least he got to be on the streets and keep an eye out for trouble. Besides, it was  _ Ron _ — he’d make his way up the ranks fairly quickly with his sharp mind and keen eye for trouble. 

Harry, on the other hand, was assigned to the undercover team. That, too, seemed all good, well, and fine at first, but then when six weeks went by and Harry was yet to be given a case, he started to realize exactly why he’d been assigned there. They didn’t want Harry Potter, the Chosen One and most recognizable person in the wizarding world to work undercover, oh no. They wanted him out of sight and out of mind until the Ministry needed him for PR stuff, to give statements and public assurances. He was no more than a puppet, a pawn, a card to be played— Harry Potter, reduced to a piece of the game instead of a player!

Oh, Harry had been  _ furious  _ when he realized it, had stormed into Robard’s office demanding to be given a case. He was all righteous fury, shouting and waving his hands about like mad, all while Head Auror Gawain Robards sat there, arms crossed, face placid. When Harry had quite finished raving at him, Robards was still and silent for a moment, eyeing Harry up and down like the problem he was, before taking out his pipe and starting to smoke. 

“Potter, I’ll get you a case,” he sighed, exhaling smoke. “Can’t promise you’ll like it, but I’ll find you one.”

And he did. The following Monday, there was a plain manilla folder sitting on Harry’s otherwise empty desk, which Harry snatched open immediately and began to read. Instead of excitement and relief, however, mortification crashed over him like a tidal wave as he scanned the page, unable to believe his eyes.

_ To Auror Potter, From the Head of the Auror Department, Gawain Robards;  _

_ You are assigned to the Undercover Unit of the Auror Department, for the purpose of obtaining information related to one Draco Malfoy and his immediate family. The assignment will begin on the following Monday, the duration of which is indeterminate. The termination of the assignment will be upon the presentation of proof beyond a reasonable doubt that the mark is no longer under orders or influence of Dark Wizards and is no longer a threat to the Wizarding World. _

_ Gawain Robards  _

_ Kingsley Shacklebolt  _

Malfoy. He was assigned to gather intel about  _ Malfoy _ . The universe had a sick sense of humor— after all the Malfoy-stalking Harry had done sixth year, he’d thought he’d never have to do it again, but  _ no,  _ now he was going to get  _ paid  _ for doing it this time. What a fucking joke.

Later, at the pub with Ron, Dean, and Seamus, he was the only one not laughing. 

“Come on, Harry, be a good sport,” Seamus laughed, clapping him on the back. “Just take it for what it is. Malfoy’s not half bad these days anyways, at least he hasn’t been since his trip to America after the trials— he even runs a potions shop on Knockturn, the one where I get all my Dreamless Sleep. It’s a little seedy, but he’s always polite and asks after my mum, though I never told him about her being sick an’ all. He’s right decent. Just nose about and make sure he’s not selling anything illegal back there and your job is as good as done.”

Harry wasn’t so convinced, but he did get the address of the shop, and some information about Malfoy’s habits. He had a job to do, after all— he may as well get what information he could, especially about this ‘trip to America’ Seamus mentioned. Heavens only knew what kind of bloody mischief a wizard could find there.

“Are sure you’re alright with this, mate?” Ron asked him once Dean and Seamus had left, giving some excuse or other about a home-cooked meal. “You know you can turn down a case any time you want. Could say there’s a conflict of interest or whatever ‘cause you testified at his trial.”

That trial… that had been something else. Malfoy had presented as an omega while awaiting trial in Azkaban— remarkably late for someone their age, likely delayed by the toll the war had taken on his body— but the way Malfoy’s unsuppressed scent had carried fear and despair like a banner had unnerved Harry as much as his sickly coloring and the distinct similarity of the hollowness in his eyes to Sirius’s after his time in Azkaban. The experience affected Harry deeply— he never wanted to see someone so broken again— which was a pretty good excuse to claim a conflict of interest if he’d ever heard one, but…

He couldn’t. He’d asked for this. So, instead of doing the easy thing and agreeing with Ron, Harry just shook his head.

“If I do that, I have a feeling I’ll never get another case. I’ve got to prove myself, Ron, and this may be the only chance I get to do it. Fuck Robards for being the prick he is, but I’ve got to do this.”

Ron shrugged. “Suit yourself. I personally wouldn’t want to touch that with a ten-foot pole.”

At that, Harry took another gulp of his beer and let out a belch of agreement. Malfoy might not have been fully a Death Eater at heart, or guilty of every crime brought against him, but he was still a wanker— never even thanked Harry for saving his arse. It was whatever, though. Stalking Malfoy was better than sitting at a desk, and as far as Harry could figure, he wouldn’t even have to try that hard to either get Malfoy off the hook (again) or fuck him over (permanently).

As for which of those it was… well, Harry wasn’t particularly picky. 


	2. Busted

Someone had been following Draco. 

It had been going on for about two weeks, give or take, and it wasn't just anyone doing this following, oh no— it was Harry  _ bloody  _ Potter, of all people. And, well, perhaps he wasn’t following _ Draco _ , exactly, but Draco had been seeing him more and more frequently at places which Potter would ordinarily never be caught dead. There was only one explanation for it, as far as Draco could figure: 

Potter was looking for something. 

To make matters worse, that something was probably Draco-related, or at least Malfoy-related, and thus Draco-related by proxy, because of  _ course  _ it was. 

So  _ Auror Potter  _ continued nosing about unhindered, as though he owned every inch of the wizarding world. Draco wasn’t sure what that daft ogre could possibly be looking for in front of Draco’s shop, from Draco’s suppliers, or, oddly enough, from the front gate of the Manor (his horribly recognizable scent had lingered faintly there for a day or two in the last week, Draco had noticed), but Potter had never been anything but a bad omen for Draco, so he kept his distance and tried not to think about it overmuch.

That was, at least until Potter came waltzing into his shop in full Auror regalia.

Oh, what an afternoon that had been. Potter had inquired after several different potions, poking around like a regular customer— ordinarily, his mannerisms would have seemed innocuous enough, but this was  _ Harry Potter _ , the antithesis of innocuous. There had to be something, some trick, some scheme— not that Potter was smart enough to pull off a proper Slytherin scheme, mind you, but one could never be too careful.

And so, Draco watched him.

Oh yes— Draco watched him like a hawk as he browsed the shelves, scanning every movement, every breath, every blink… but it seemed that there was nothing to watch. Potter, that complete git, never even bought anything, and didn’t even seem to have tampered with anything either— had either of them been someone else, Draco might have even taken that at face value and let well enough alone. 

Draco, however, was not someone else, and Potter seemed to be very much himself— and if living with the most evil Dark Wizard to ever exist had taught Draco anything, it had taught him that just because things  _ seemed  _ one way didn’t mean they were. 

So, after Potter left, Draco collected everything he’d touched or even  _ glanced  _ at a little too long and took it out back to study. Surely,  _ surely  _ Potter had a purpose for coming besides  _ window shopping.  _ It was all just too convenient for Draco to believe otherwise. 

In the end, however, it appeared that there were no spells placed on the bottles, no tampering done to the potions— Potter’s presence in the shop, while grating, had apparently been benign.  __

Still, all that skulking and leering and bloody  _ overbearing  _ alpha presence had put Draco ill at ease— there was something wrong about the whole situation, though he likely wouldn’t find out until something awful happened. And, because everything Potter had ever been involved in was a massive cock-up, something awful surely  _ would  _ happen— Draco just knew it.

Per usual, he was correct.

Draco had been strolling down Diagon, minding his own business when it happened. If Draco hadn’t known any better, he’d have admitted to feeling watched in the moments before, but there was no reason that anyone would be trailing him in the middle of the day down one of the safest, most reputable places in the wizarding world, and since he’d felt watched nearly every day for the past two weeks, he chalked it up to lingering paranoia from the war. There was, seemingly, nothing wrong, nothing to be wary of (unless the looks he got from ‘respectable’ folks that didn’t associate with ex-Death Eaters counted, but he’d gotten used to that a long time ago). So no, nothing to fear— at least, not until Draco found himself dragged off and onto a side street, manhandled like some ragdoll.

“Unhand me, you cretin,” he hissed at his obviously alpha captor, the small, scared boy from Hogwarts rising to the surface of his personality once more as the rank smell of aggressive alpha filled his nostrils. 

“And pass up an opportunity to kick the shit out of Death Eater breeding stock?” The alpha laughed, and Draco watched as two other figures emerged from the shadows. “Not in this lifetime.”

Draco never had a chance.

The two others grabbed Draco by either arm— even if he’d  _ had  _ a wand, they would have overpowered him in seconds— and the alpha landed blow after blow, alternating between Draco’s face and his torso, as though he couldn’t figure out which place he liked hitting Draco best. For a moment, Draco considered fighting back, using a bit of the wandless magic he'd been experimenting with, spitting at them, something, but the weight of the world seemed to hang on his shoulders. He was so tried— why should he even try? It didn't hurt so bad, really, it was child’s play compared to the Cruciatus curse— and who was to say that Draco deserved any less?

Besides, he knew from experience that bullying was only fun when the other party fought back.

  
  


***

  
  


Harry was well and truly fucked.

Well, really, he shouldn’t be so shocked— it wasn’t like he hadn’t known that since the day he’d been handed the assignment with Draco Malfoy’s name on it— but it was the principle of the thing. Stalking Malfoy had been… uneventful. He seemed to be squeaky clean in almost every area of his life, which wasn’t something Harry had anticipated, but something he was strangely relieved by. Another thing Harry hadn’t anticipated with Malfoy was Malfoy’s ridiculous level of attractiveness, even while doing the most ordinary things. 

At first, Harry hadn’t really taken any notice of it, focusing instead on his work like a good little Auror. After about three days, though, it became hard to ignore how all of Malfoy’s clothes fit so well they looked like they were bloody _painted on_. After four days, Harry found himself being distracted by the way a single hair would fall into Malfoy’s face while he worked, itching to brush it away. After two weeks, Harry was dying of blue balls for the most insufferable person he’d ever met, and that probably should have been when he realized just how fucked he was.

Instead, it was right then, staring at Draco’s split lip (and wondering what it would taste like if the pureblood omega allowed him to kiss it), that the feeling of being royally reamed by his shitty, shitty Auror job was stronger than ever. He knew he should leave it be and walk away. This wasn’t Auror business, and Malfoy wasn’t stupid enough to believe that Harry hadn’t been following him in order to catch sight of all this awful business, but watching those three assholes as they swung over and over when Malfoy wasn’t fighting back, wasn’t spitting curses at them, wasn’t even  _ looking  _ at them… it was too much for Harry to sit back and let happen. 

“ _ Expelliarmus _ !” 

With the alpha of the group thrown backwards several feet and into a wall, the other two (presumably betas) scrambled away. The alpha followed suit as Harry caught Malfoy before he collapsed, but instead of allowing Harry to help him, Malfoy shoved him away, evidently preferring to land on his arse than accept a helping hand.

“So you  _ have  _ been following me!” Malfoy accused, scrambling to his feet and baring his teeth in lieu of a greeting. “I  _ knew  _ you didn’t come to Knockturn to louse about, I just  _ knew  _ it. And the Manor, Potter, you were at my home!”

Harry sighed. No good deed goes unpunished after all. “A little gratitude would have been nice, Malfoy.”

“Nice, indeed,” Malfoy grumbled, brushing off his (remarkably Muggle) shirt. “Quick question for you, Potter— what the bloody hell is wrong with you?”

“What’s— what do you  _ mean,  _ what's wrong with me?” Harry spluttered, incredulous. “I’ve just saved you, and you want to know what’s  _ wrong  _ with me?”

Draco scoffed, every inch the snotty prat he’d been in school, only infinitely more attractive with that styled-messy hair and adrenaline-soaked omega pheromones pulling Harry in like quicksand. It just wasn’t  _ fair  _ how pretty he was.

“Yes, that’s what I asked. Are you mad, Potter? We’ve hated each other for years, and yet you testify at my trial, wait three years, and then follow me around for two weeks, and now here you are playing hero when some self-righteous twats felt like giving a villain a good beating— which, in case you haven’t noticed, is something you would have done any given day at Hogwarts. Get a grip, Potter, honestly, or they’ll send you off to St. Mungo’s as sure as I’m pretty.”

“Well,” Harry said without thinking a single word of it through, “you  _ are _ rather pretty, so maybe they will lock me away after all.”

The look Malfoy gave him was not unlike the look he would’ve given a Kneazle that was giving birth on his fancy, expensive silk sheets, and Harry couldn’t blame him.

“Who the _fuck_ are you, and what the fuck have you done with Harry Potter?”

Well, that went wonderfully— and of course, because Harry was as incapable of resisting the urge to poke the bear now as he had been three years ago in his Hogwarts days, his reply was even worse:

“Are you always this foul-mouthed, or do I just bring it out in you?”

“Am I— have you lost the bloody plot?”

Harry couldn’t help himself. The mission was as good as gone to shit anyways— Malfoy would never, ever not notice him sneaking around and spying on him again— so why not enjoy the crash and burn? He laughed at the absurdity of it all. He guffawed until tears clouded his vision and he nearly fell over from giddiness. It was all so bloody silly. Harry Potter, the most well-known wizard in the world, was an  _ undercover  _ Auror! The child who won the war, a useless figurehead! How barmy was that? And he was supposed to investigate  _ Malfoy— _ an uptight, pureblood posh totty who had fucked off for a couple years after the war to cool down and then had come back to fuck about his rich, evil mansion for no discernable reason, as no one else lived there besides himself. Yet Malfoy had the gall to ask  _ Harry  _ if  _ he’d  _ ‘lost the bloody plot’. Ridiculous.

Malfoy, however, seemed significantly less amused by Harry’s outburst, and crossed his arms with a glare fueled by hellfire.

"Fuck you, Potter," he spat, turning away. "Take your savior complex somewhere else. I had it handled."

"Handled?" Harry scoffed, incredulous. "They were beating the piss out of you!"

“Which was none of your business," Malfoy huffed, indignant, and the laughter in Harry’s chest bubbled up all over again. 

“You know," Malfoy said carefully, rubbing at his swollen jaw, "at first I thought Muggles were silly creatures, a bit mad themselves in their own way, but fuck if I can’t see why they thought  _ I  _ was a lunatic after watching you take the piss like this. If this is how they see wizards, I don’t know how the hell I haven’t got myself bloody shot.”

“M’not taking the piss,” Harry giggled, clutching his stomach. “And what would  _ you  _ know about Muggles, Death Eater?"

Then, all of a sudden, things weren't as funny anymore when Draco's fist connected with Harry's face. 

"Don't fucking call me that, Potter," Malfoy hissed, and it was all Harry could do to take the high road and leave that blow unanswered. 

Draco Malfoy  _ had  _ been a Death Eater, a full one with the Mark and everything— the fact that he was a child during the war did nothing to change that— and Harry had every right to say whatever he wanted to say and wallop anyone who said otherwise.

Instead, Harry grit his teeth and thought of the mission as the scent of Malfoy's (oddly aggressive) omega pheromones flared with acrid rage in his nostrils. 

"Sorry, sorry," Harry replied, holding his hands up. "It was an honest question, though."

Malfoy pursed his lips and started to argue, but then stopped short, as though thinking better of it. To Harry's utter shock, instead of unleashing some scathing remark, the reply Malfoy formed was tame, and perhaps even civil. 

“I know a fair bit, actually, seeing as how I lived among them for the past three years. Muggle London was alright, but going to Muggle America was a little like heaven. A country  _ full  _ of Slytherins, I tell you, everyone’s got an ambition. Never been so at home.”

Harry couldn’t believe his ears. “You  _ what? _ ”

Malfoy glowered.

“Look, not that I don’t  _ love  _ the throwback to the days of the Inquisition, but really, Potter, I’m hungry, and as it happens, immediately after having my arse whipped in the middle of Diagon Alley isn’t my favorite time to have a chat,” Malfoy groused, running a hand though his somehow still flawless hair. “So unless you want to treat me to lunch, I’d suggest we carry this on another time— or perhaps, if I’m lucky, never again— yes?”

“I can treat you to lunch,” Harry replied, still letting his mouth run off without his brain. “In fact, come back with me to mine, I’ve got something for you.”

Harry had forgotten just how expressive Malfoy could be— before things had all gone tits up, Harry supposed he really had been the most animated, expressive person at Hogwarts. After about fifth year, that liveliness had fled from Malfoy, darkness, fear, and anger having taken its place… but if the look of disbelief he was giving Harry was any indication, Malfoy had regained that animation and expression after his time abroad. 

“You’re going to hex me,” Malfoy accused, folding his arms. “Or worse, lock me in your basement. Or do some terrible, horrible thing that disgustingly heroic alphas like you do when you think no one is looking.”

Harry chuckled. Silly, silly Malfoy. Harry would do much, much worse than that, but only if Malfoy gave him a reason. “Look, basements and the two of us have a long, sordid history, now stop being such a wanker and let’s have lunch somewhere no one is trying to beat the piss out of you, yeah?”

And that was how Draco Malfoy wound up having lunch at 12 Grimmauld Place with Harry. 

At first, it was rather tense— what kind of absolute madman would want to have their ex-arch-nemesis over for lunch?— but what with Kreacher’s bowing and scraping and sobbing with joy at having a true Black to serve again, it was hard for them not to laugh at least a little at the poor House-elf’s expense. Besides, it helped that Malfoy (as always) smelled unreasonably good, a charming little omega quality that had Harry’s alpha instincts preening at having such a wonderful scent in his den. After a while, the tension bled away entirely, and in its place came tiny, tentative attempts at small talk, even on Malfoy's part.

“I do love what you’ve done with the place,” Malfoy commented, surprisingly genuine in his remark. “With all the grime and awful interior decor gone, it looks positively inhabitable.”

“Well, I really had nowhere else to stay," Harry admitted with half a laugh. "And honestly, it was a sort of cleansing process for both me and the house. The war left me a little empty, and fixing up this diamond in the rough gave me something to do.”

“I see.”

After that, they ate in silence for a while, Malfoy picking delicately at the lovely meal Kreacher had prepared. Harry had never seen someone eat so properly, so  _ cautiously _ — it was actually kind of cute. Harry wondered if Malfoy had to be taught to be so prim and proper, or if he'd just picked it up naturally from watching his family. Certainly, no one was born with such grace and sophistication— right?

And besides, even if he  _ was  _ born with it, somehow Malfoy's poncey pureblood manners would have looked foolish on anyone else. He made it look so effortless, so natural— if Harry were to move the exact same way, he'd look like a lunatic, while Malfoy was the picture of perfect, pristine etiquette. 

_ Stupid wanker _ .

Pushing that train of thought away, Harry remembered that he did have business with Draco, and a job to do. It would be foolish of him to waste this chance to glean information from his mark anyways. He might never get another opportunity— at least not one where Malfoy was being so… open.

“So, Muggles,” Harry ventured, taking in a mouthful of quiche. “What do you think of them?”

At that, Malfoy actually blushed. Harry was  _ not  _ going to acknowledge that flustered was a good look on him. “This is going to sound a bit odd, coming from me, but I think they’re brilliant, actually.”

After that, Malfoy launched into the tale of his travels— how he’d struggled to fit in, how he’d spent weeks trying to learn the Muggle currency before giving up and just throwing _too much_ money at whatever he was trying to purchase, and how he was bollocks at trying to figure out what in the hell any of the Muggles were saying at any given time— and Harry found himself entranced by Malfoy. The man was so excited, grinning from ear to ear, that it was bloody contagious. Harry listened with interest as Malfoy spoke unreservedly about his love for Star Wars (and how he appreciated Obi-Wan for his dislike of ‘uncivilized’ blasters), laughed at himself a bit as he told Harry how much he loved Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody, and blushed timidly as he admitted his love of fast food, even if Muggles thought he was a lunatic for eating burgers with a fork— Malfoy even expressed his disappointment that his father had kept him from so many amazing things in the Muggle world, and Harry wondered if Malfoy’s brief expression of sadness was what true repentance looked like.

“And besides,” Malfoy grinned after swallowing a bite of dessert, which happened to be a cheese danish, “I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again, America is a country after my own Slytherin heart. Everyone’s got a dream— ‘I want to be a movie star,’ they say, or ‘I’m going to live solely off of soy, alcohol, and adderall,’ and then they just— they do it. Fascinating, I tell you. Oh, and I’ve taken quite a liking to Muggle weaponry. I’ve got myself a pistol and some other little trinkets— and, in the absence of a new wand, I’ve been… experimenting. Granted, I’m not entirely sure where it’s going to get me, but I’ve got a feeling that I’ll make a breakthrough soon.”

“About that,” Harry interjected, a little sheepish as he stood up from the table. “Come with me.”

He really  _ did  _ have something to give to Malfoy— up a flight of stairs and three rooms to the left was Harry’s Room of Borrowed Things, in which was Malfoy’s wand, about three of Ron’s shirts, a dozen quills, and no less than twenty books Hermoine had guilted him into attempting to read. It was in the direction of that room that he led Malfoy, desperately searching for the right words to say with each step they took. 

Before Harry could explain himself, cast a  _ Lumos,  _ or even apologize for the mess as they entered the room, Malfoy stepped in behind him, casting his own  _ Lumos _ and taking a rather bold look about the room that felt slightly… off, somehow. Harry stood by, helpless as Malfoy drank in the sight of the room hungrily, and as soon as Malfoy’s eyes landed on the piano, his entire face lit up. Completely in awe, Harry watched as he stepped towards it in excitement, then stopped short. 

“Potter, I don’t want you to get any ideas, but may I play your piano?”

How odd. Still, Malfoy looked so hopeful, and the small, alpha instinct-driven part of Harry whispered that he should please this omega, this thin, fragile, life-making creature with whom he was currently sharing a domestic moment. Harry simply couldn’t refuse.

“Alright, well, sure,” Harry laughed, a little nervous as Malfoy swept away the dust on the bench. “It may not be in tune— I’ve never touched the thing.”

Malfoy snorted, haughtiness back in full force. “Of course it’s tuned, we’re wizards. Around here, they have charms for that sort of thing.”

Without further ado, Malfoy surprised him for the billionth time that day by playing masterfully, teasing the black and white keys with long, slender fingers whose skill Harry had never heard the equal of. A little tune here, a sweet, sad set of chords there— it was all very impressive to Harry, who had never learned to play anything— and then Malfoy cleared his throat. If Harry thought he was impressed before, he was woefully unprepared for what was to come— for Malfoy began to sing as he played, softly at first, in the clearest, loveliest tenor Harry had ever heard in his life. 

_ “I've paid my dues,”  _ Malfoy sang, quiet, and yet so very intense.  _ “Time after time. I've done my sentence, but committed no crime.” _

Harry couldn’t believe his ears— Draco  _ bloody _ Malfoy was playing Harry’s piano, singing a Muggle rock song like he was born to it! And the evil, smug little bastard knew he was good. As he continued the song, Harry felt an ugly twinge of jealousy, which he would never admit to another soul, even upon pain of death.

“Sing along, if you’d like,” Draco called over his shoulder during a pause for the instrumental. “I know you want to. Everyone always sings along to this one.”

Harry didn’t answer outright— that would have been too much of a blow to his pride. Instead, he joined in on the chorus, causing Draco to let out a jolly laugh and play all the louder.

_ “We are the champions, my friend, we'll keep on fighting till the end." _

Harry couldn't believe it— Malfoy knew every word! It was all he could do not to crow with joy and excitement. 

_ "No time for losers, 'cause we are the champions… of the world!” _

At the song’s end, Harry was breathless with laughter and Malfoy was grinning like a fool. 

“I didn’t know you played,” Harry said, nodding towards the keys. “That was fantastic.”

Malfoy snorted, derisive as usual, but somehow a little less vicious, and instead, a little more teasing. “I’m a pureblood, Potter, we all play. In fact, this is a drawing room, used for games and entertainment for guests. I just happen to play a little better than my peers, and to your untrained ear, I probably sound like a professional.”

_ Well, you can take the man out of the mansion…  _ Harry thought with a wry smile, before scoffing. “You ruin everything, Malfoy, just shut up and play something else.”

“Well, I was  _ going  _ to— in fact, I was going to play you my favorite song by Queen— but that bossy alpha tone you’re taking with me is starting to make me change my mind,” Malfoy huffed, crossing his arms.

Harry mirrored the action, admittedly a little put out. “Oh come off it, you prat, you can’t be like that. I’ve just fed you lunch.”

One platinum brow raised. “So now you’re retroactively attaching conditions to your hospitality? Despicable, Potter.”

“I don’t even know what ‘retroactively’ means!” Harry protested, but then grinned a bit to himself as he got an idea. “Well, I’m sorry I ruffled your feathers, you peacock, but I’d like to hear the other song you were going to play before I opened my trap.”

It was just as Harry thought— by offering a tiny (albeit a tad insincere) apology and a bit of vulnerability, he’d successfully petted Malfoy’s ego enough to get the results he wanted. With a sly smile, Draco took off his cufflinks and slipped them into his pockets, looking like the cat that got the cream as he rolled up his sleeves. 

“Well then, when you put it that way,” Draco all but purred, and then his fingers were on the keys again, filling the air with sweet, sad music, and Harry’s heart clenched as he recognized the song. 

_ “Love of my life, you’ve hurt me,”  _ Malfoy sang, leaning into the piano. Harry blinked, noticing that in that moment, Malfoy looked not unlike a painting one would find in a cathedral— a flushed, seraphic figure from a dreamscape in the clouds of a sunrise. He was truly stunning, the picture of perfection captured in a single person.  _ “You’ve broken my heart, and now you leave me.” _

Harry was suddenly stuck by the idea that Malfoy could, in fact, experience heartbreak— because he actually  _ did  _ have a heart— and, judging by his expression, he’d been heartbroken before.

_ “Love of my life, can’t you see? Bring it back, bring it back, don’t take it away from me, because you don’t know what it means to me.” _

It was all so surreal— to think of Malfoy as a person, as someone who lived and breathed and  _ felt  _ things. Harry didn’t quite know what to do with it. He was no great singer, so he couldn’t exactly match Malfoy’s timbre of silken thunder— and he sure as hell didn’t feel as though he could place a friendly hand on Malfoy’s shoulder in solidarity— and yet he felt as though he should do  _ something _ , anything to show the omega that he was there with him, connected to him as they were moved by the same tide. There was nothing for it, though, so Harry just stood there, witness to the beauty that was Malfoy in the midst of passion.

As the last chord reverberated through the room, warming Harry to the bone, neither of them broke the silence for a good few minutes, stuck in the afterglow of a wonderful, if private, performance.

“My mother taught me to play,” Malfoy confessed softly over the keys, his white-blonde lashes kissing his cheek. “I’ve missed it, I think.”

Harry spoke again— it bears repeating that he didn’t think beforehand this time, either. “You can come and play any time you like.”

Malfoy huffed a laugh. “No, really, I couldn’t.”

“Well, why not?” Harry asked, though he knew full well why not. 

“What did you bring me up here for, Potter?”

It was a cheap distraction, but an effective one. Harry pulled a box off a shelf to his right, opening it to reveal Malfoy’s wand. 

“I didn’t know when a good time to bring it back would be,” Harry confessed, feeling himself flush. “But since you’re here…”

Cautiously, almost reverently, Malfoy took his wand, ran his fingers along the hawthorn wood, and shivered involuntarily. 

“Thank you.” The words were barely whispered, but Harry felt them anyways. 

Harry shrugged. “It’s the least I could do.”

It wasn’t, but Malfoy didn’t seem inclined to argue. 

Then, in a desperate attempt to stifle the awkward silence, Harry gestured towards the piano. “One more song?”

Indeed, Malfoy was quite willing to play one more song— then another, and another, until it was time for dinner, and Malfoy reluctantly took his leave. Surprisingly, Harry was just as reluctant to see him go. 

“Don’t be a stranger, yeah?” Harry offered before Malfoy took the Floo home. “You’ll have to come back and play sometime.”

Malfoy snorted. “Absolutely not.”

Harry grinned. “I’ll owl you an invitation.”

And just like that, Malfoy was gone, leaving Harry bereft of his wit, charm, and damnably sweet omega scent. The alpha— and, perhaps, the human— in Harry missed him instantly, and wondered if Malfoy Manor was as cold and lonely as Harry’s own home could be. He almost hoped it wasn’t— Malfoy wasn’t a half-bad bloke, really, and the alpha in Harry wanted him to find solace in his privacy and the quiet of an empty house instead of sadness and bitter memories. No one, alpha, beta, or omega, should ever have to be so alone and lonely.

But, then again… if Malfoy was, in fact, as lonely as Harry was sometimes…

Then maybe this assignment wouldn’t be half bad after all.


	3. Nose Goes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo, this chapter was SUPER FUN to write, I hope yall enjoy!!

Draco promised himself that he wouldn’t go back to Potter’s house after that first time. The man was an  _ Auror _ for fuck’s sake, it was like Draco was  _ asking  _ to be busted for selling illegal potions (which was the only semi-respectable job he could get in the wizarding world, thanks to the war). At any rate, Potter was a stupid wanker and Draco hated him. There was no reason to return to 12 Grimmauld Place, even if Draco was on fire and Potter had the last bucket of water on the planet— so, Draco wouldn’t return, not for anything. Not even when Potter’s tawny owl pecked at his window, peering sweetly in at him as though Draco were a new friend, would Draco be persuaded to make another appearance there. 

At least that’s what Draco told himself after the first time. Then once more after the second time. And again after the third. After that, well, he couldn’t be arsed to keep lying to himself anymore. Any time Potter’s owl— Penny, he learned her name was— tapped at his window, Draco grabbed his coat and used the Floo to pop in, knowing he would be greeted with the sight of Potter dithering about in the kitchen, bringing out glasses of wine and helping Kreacher with trays of hors d'oeuvres to bring up to the drawing room. From there, they would sit and talk and drink, and then Draco would play a while. It was easy, fun, and even a bit relaxing— Draco had never felt so comfortable with anyone, much less with  _ Harry fucking Potter,  _ alpha of all alphas and every omega’s wet dream.

Not that Draco was attracted to the man, mind, but he wasn’t  _ blind  _ either.

For having been such a scrawny little thing as a teenager, Potter had filled out nicely into a thickly muscled, combat-certified Auror as an adult. In only three years of training (while Draco was fucking off out of the country), Potter had develped large, curving biceps, firm pectorals, and thighs so thick and strong that Draco was absolutely  _ certain  _ Potter could crush a melon between them— and to even begin on the subject of how well those bloody sinful Auror uniforms suited him would be foolish, because one could never  _ stop  _ finding sexy features to appreciate. Potter’s thigh holster alone was enough to make Draco salivate a bit when he first caught sight of it on one of his visits. Surely, for Draco to let his mind wander to something even as innocent as those lovely buttons would inevitably lead to thoughts of popping them off with his teeth, or worse, admitting to himself that he wouldn’t actually mind licking those sexy greaves strapped to Potter’s shins if it meant he could take them off along with Potter’s pants shortly after. 

So yeah, that was all good, well, and fine. Potter was a nice-looking bloke. It was normal, healthy even, for an omega to appreciate those qualities in an unmated alpha. Draco was definitely not attracted to Potter, but he just… _noticed_ things, that was all. 

Perhaps stranger, even, than this newfound friendship with Potter, was the off-branching friendships that stemmed from it. For example, on Monday nights, Draco had been invited to go out and drink with Potter and his mates (including but not limited to the Weasel, Dean Thomas, and Seamus Finnigan)— an invitation that he had respectfully but resoundingly declined, at first. Spending time with Potter privately was one thing, but for the ex-favorite son of the Death Eaters to be seen out and about with the savior of the wizarding world? Unthinkable.

Well, it was until Seamus Finnigan burst through Draco's Floo, demanding his presence at the Leaky Cauldron, anyways. 

_ "Finnigan, I know you've got no bloody rearing, but this is low even for you!"  _ Draco had spluttered, admittedly a bit flustered at having been caught in his house coat and pyjama bottoms at an embarrassingly early hour.  _ "What is the meaning of this, you Floo-ing into my home unannounced? I ought to flay you alive—" _

_ "Easy, easy."  _ Seamus's grin was as cheeky as ever.  _ "I come in peace an' all that rubbish. Potter was upset seein' as how you didn't show, and he's ruining the mood with his moping, so either you can get your pointy little arse dressed and come back with me to the Leaky, or I can drag you there in what you're wearing. Your pick." _

Draco had chosen to come along willingly, as he had no doubt Seamus could and would do exactly as he'd threatened. 

All in all, the evening wasn't too heinous, despite the amount of eye-rolling that came with Gryffindor company. Draco actually had fun— when he wasn't giving the Weasel the side-eye to make sure he wasn't going to throw any hexes when he thought Draco wasn't looking, that is. Besides, it was nice to sit and have a pleasant conversation without having to worry about the immediate ramifications for once— even before the war, the extent of Draco's social experience was learning how to navigate the mine-field of a subtle interrogation and fire his own shots in return. This lot, while gormless, were also guileless, and it gave Draco a sort of freedom of discourse that he'd never had before. If he was honest with himself, it was brilliant, truly brilliant, and he would have to admit that he coveted their comfort and ease with one another, even as he knew he could never obtain it for himself. 

Oddly enough, however, Draco received an invitation to join them the same time next week, and the next, and the next— soon, it was simply a standing invitation, and he enjoyed Monday nights with the lads, almost like a normal person would. Of course, Harry still invited him over pretty regularly, but now they'd settled into a routine, with drinks on Monday, supper at the Manor on Wednesdays, and brunch on Saturdays at Grimmauld. It was an unshakeable schedule, a steady constant, come rain or shine or sickness or health. Potter was always just… there.

So when Potter failed to show up for drinks with the lads about a month after they'd started, Draco was a bit concerned. 

"Any idea where Harry is?" Seamus asked the group after about a quarter of an hour, echoing Draco's thoughts. "He didn't mention he wouldn't be here, which is a bit weird."

"Yeah, he wasn't feeling well earlier today," Ron shrugged. "I figured he'd bail out after the bloody great row he had with Robards. Either that or drink himself silly here, which he very well might do anyways all on his own."

"Someone ought to go check on him," Dean frowned, sharing a knowing look with Seamus. 

Ron snorted. "Yeah, because everyone wants to spend the evening at St. Mungos after Harry hexes off their bollocks for breathing too close to him. His temper is horrific, you know this."

"But he still needs to be checked on," Dean pressed, kicking Ron under the table. "If it were any one of us, he'd do the same. Wouldn't you feel like an arse if he died of alcohol poisoning? Or lit himself on fire trying to smoke and drink at the same time?"

"Alright, well who the bloody hell are we gonna send to do it?" Ron replied, folding his arms. "I don't see any of you lot sticking your necks out. Just because I'm his best mate doesn't mean I have to risk my bollocks every single time he's in a pissy mood."

Seamus and Dean exchanged looks again, and Draco had the foresight to brace himself before both of them bellowed out the same two words simultaneously:

"Nose goes!"

At that, all three Gryffindors scrambled to… stick their finger on their nose? Draco wasn't exactly sure what the big deal was at first, but it slowly dawned on him that the words  _ "nose goes",  _ meant exactly what they said. 

Damn Muggle culture. He'd never get the bloody hang of it.

"You'll be alright," Seamus grinned with devious mirth after Draco and all his protests had been squashed by the apparently iron-clad rules of 'nose goes'. "Harry's tried ruddy hard to hex you good and proper all your life, and yet here you sit. Now that he doesn't want to hex you normally, you should be fine!"

“But he  _ has, _ ” Draco protested, thinking back to his  _ Sectumsempra  _ wounds. “And as for me actually surviving it, it was a damn close thing.”

“Then he’ll just finish the job, no harm no foul,” Ron grinned, elbowing him. “Now fuck off so we can place bets on what body parts he lets you keep.”

With that incredibly optimistic sendoff, Draco grumbled under his breath and took a bit of Floo powder from the Leaky's fireplace, Floo-ing directly into Potter's living room— an action that, a few beers ago, would have seemed much less like a good idea and less like the disaster that it was. 

When Draco stepped out of Grimmauld's fireplace to find a crumpled, Auror-robed, Potter-shaped mess on the couch, though, he instantly found himself more socially out of his depth than he'd ever been— a situation more effective than a sobering potion. 

Every other time Draco had popped over to Grimmauld unexpectedly, Potter had been in a pretty good mood, if perhaps a little haggard from his strenuous work schedule. In fact, he was always  _ disgustingly  _ happy, the very picture of the ideal Saint Potter, warm and welcoming to any and all at any hour of the day or night. No matter if Potter hadn't slept in three weeks while staking out on the job, or if he'd just watched a colleague die in the field— if someone else came calling, Potter's Superhero Override rebooted his system and activated his Caring For Others programming. 

Only, now it looked as though Potter were the one in need of a superhero with a Caring For Others program— Draco had seen cadavers with more liveliness.

Dark bags that spoke of very little sleep hung beneath Potter's eyes, and his skin had taken on a sickly, pale quality that the omega in Draco— and perhaps Draco himself— didn’t like at all. His expression was dark, his eyes were bloodshot, and a bottle of firewhiskey was nestled under his arm. As if that wasn't bad enough, an unlit cigar hung out of his mouth, which he was trying (and failing) to light using the magical discharge from the snap of his fingers.

"Isn't it sort of fucking rude to pop into someone's Floo without calling ahead first?" Potter asked distantly, strangely aggressive in word and yet strangely passive in tone. Still, he continued to throw sparks with his snapping fingers as though Draco weren't there, failing each time to light his cigar.

"Isn't it sort of fucking rude to ditch drinks without telling anyone?"

At that, Potter looked up from his snapping, his usually shining green eyes dull and malicious. 

"If you aren't the savior of the bloody wizarding world, I suppose it is," he replied, studying Draco coldly. "But since I fucking died to save everyone and only  _ just  _ decided to choose to come back, I think I get a break every now and then, hm?"

Draco didn't like that one bit. Potter wasn't himself— his normally warm alpha scent of rain, charred earth, and the barest hint of ozone was almost completely covered by the smell of booze, and he was being a worse dick to Draco than he was when Draco actually deserved it. Draco wasn't sure what the hell had gotten into that self-righteous twat, but one thing was for sure— he’d never taken shit from Potter before, and he wasn’t about to start now.

"You're not special, Potter, get in line with everyone else and cancel your plans like an adult." Draco crossed his arms, defiant in the face of Potter's glare. "They were worried about you."

Potter's eyes flashed. "But you weren't."

"Pardon?" Draco asked, taken aback. 

"You didn't give a fuck did you?" Potter's expression was absolutely sinister, and Draco couldn't help but feel as though he were missing something. "Couldn't care two figs whether or not I was there, could you?"

Draco's eyes narrowed. "Potter, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You wouldn't," Potter replied haughtily, and Draco couldn't stand it anymore. 

“For your information, I  _ was  _ worried, you utter knob,” Draco snapped, snatching the firewhiskey from Potter, spilling it over both of them in the process as Potter resisted. “And it turns out I was right to be. Honestly, Potter, you look like roadkill. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’d been run over by a stampede of Thestrals.”

All at once, Potter’s hostile demeanor melted, rearranging itself into something akin to shame. He reluctantly relinquished his firewhiskey to Draco and flopped backwards on the couch, arms folded.

"You really were worried?" he asked, studying Draco with a curious expression. 

"Yes. Is that why you skipped out on drinks tonight?" Draco teased, replacing the cork on the firewhiskey he'd confiscated. "Wanted me to miss you, Potter?"

Potter's smile was dim and tired, but nonetheless fond. “And what if that was so? Would that make me foolish?"

Draco's heart pounded in his chest. Surely Potter couldn't mean what Draco thought he meant. It was beyond improbable— it was impossible. 

_ Play it cool,  _ Draco told himself, affecting the patented Malfoy disposition of haughty indifference.  _ You're a Slytherin, for Merlin's sake, have a little subtlety. _

"Everything that makes you foolish has already been published in  _ The Prophet, _ " Draco replied, gracefully side-stepping the question. "As I've yet to see it in the gossip column, I believe we can put your fears to rest."

At that, Potter laughed—  _ truly  _ laughed. 

"You are  _ such _ a prick, Malfoy, but you always make me feel better."

Draco couldn't help it— he preened at the praise. His inner omega purred with delight at having been a source of comfort and amusement for this strong, handsome alpha, and he couldn't quite stop a rosy blush from coloring his cheeks.

"Yes, well, I'm glad I could be of service," he coughed out awkwardly, clasping his hands together in front of himself. "Erm, I suppose that since I know you're alright, I can just—"

Abruptly, Potter stood, cutting Draco off as he wobbled gracelessly to his feet. "Hand me the Firewhiskey again."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "What for? You've had plenty."

"You're too sober," Potter informed him matter-of-factly. "Way too sober."

A single silver brow rose up Draco's forehead. "What are you suggesting?"

Potter smirked. There was something just a tiny bit evil in his expression, and Draco's heart beat just a bit faster. “A drinking game. One where I can definitely get you as drunk as me fast enough to salvage the evening. And possibly ruin it, if you like that sort of thing.” 

"Do go on," Draco replied, struggling to maintain his cool exterior. 

“Well, you see, to play the game, I'll ask you a question, you either answer it or take a shot, and vice versa," Potter grinned, far too excited for his own good. "And, if we feel like upping the ante, we line the rims of the glass with Veritaserum, so with every shot, we risk being less and less able to control our level of honesty and ability to refuse questions.”

“Hmm,” Draco chewed his bottom lip, thinking. “Sounds dangerous. You're already drunk— you sure you want to add Veritaserum to that? Now that I think about it, where did you  _ get  _ Veritaserum? I'm certain that it's illegal to own without a license."

Draco knew that for certain because he  _ didn't  _ have a license, but that didn't stop him from brewing and selling it in his shop.

However, Potter must have sensed Draco's hesitation, because he crossed his arms and gave him That Look. “Scared, Malfoy?”

Draco never could resist a challenge. 

“You’re on.”

It took them a moment to ready everything— Kreacher had already gone to bed— but before long, Draco and Potter were sharing space on the couch, stretching out with their feet pointed towards each other. Excitement hummed through his body, and the parts of him that were touching Potter felt burning hot— it was a wonder Draco’s pheromones weren’t giving away just how thrilled he really, really was. 

“You first,” Potter said, pushing those ridiculous glasses higher up on his nose. 

Draco had never been so eager to indulge his nosiness. 

“How did you lose your virginity?”

Potter laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that warmed Draco to his core. “Ginny Weasley climbed me like a tree and told me to ‘plant my flag and claim it for England’ in no uncertain terms.”

_ Ew.  _ “Well, I’ll never get that image out of my head. Your turn.”

“I return that question to you. How was the pure, perfect, Slytherin prefect deflowered?”

Draco slammed a shot back as fast as he could physically manage, and hacked rather unattractively as it scalded him on the way down. The burn was worth it—there was  _ no way _ Draco was ever telling  _ anyone  _ about letting himself be buggered by Blaise Zabini. Unsurprisingly, Potter seemed to think Draco’s hesitation was funny, and he threw his head back to laugh, giving Draco a lovely view of his throat, which shone a brilliant copper-tan against the wine-dark red of his disheveled Auror robes. 

“Alright, very well then,” Potter snickered. “Your turn.”

“What’s your favorite Muggle thing?”

“Oh, definitely memes.”

Draco cocked his head to the side. “Memes?”

Potter grinned. “I’ll show you sometime. Now, tell me, Malfoy— what is your guilty pleasure?”

“I love to write poetry when I’m going through a heat on my own,” Draco admitted, feeling the tongue-loosening effect of the Veritaserum kicking in. “It’s all horrible, filthy shit, but it makes me feel less alone.”

“Do that often, do you?” Potter teased, but Draco nudged him none too gently with his foot.

“That’s another question, you wanker, and it’s my turn.”

Potter waved a hand. “Ask away.”

“Well, then, Potter— when did you know you were an alpha?”

It was a pretty innocuous question in and of itself, but Potter’s expression turned serious, serious, serious, and suddenly Draco wished he’d never asked. 

“I didn’t know until I was fifteen,” he replied, and Draco blanched. Most wizards knew their secondary gender by the time they turned ten, and were thoroughly educated on what would happen to them during puberty. To have reached the age of fifteen without knowing one’s secondary gender… it was unthinkable. “The Muggle family I lived with gave me a little white pill every day. I had no idea what it was, or why I had to take it, but they terrified me to the point of taking it without question until I turned fourteen— I only stopped taking it then because Hermoine told me they were suppressants and that taking them for so long probably fucked up my system. And it did, in a way.”

“I’m sorry,” Draco said, and he meant it. “I didn’t know.”

Potter shrugged, as though it was nothing. “Nobody does, outside of Ron and ‘Moine. It’s not something I talk about a lot. Is it my turn now?” 

Draco shrugged. “Yeah, go for it.”

“What are heats like for you?” he asked, genuine curiosity alight in his eyes. “I’ve always wondered if it was— y’know— the same. As a rut, I mean.”

Draco grinned. “Imagining me as a wanton slut, gagging for alpha cock, Potter?”

“Oh come off it, Malfoy,” Potter laughed, nudging Draco. “Will you answer the question or won’t you?”

“Alright, fine,” Draco relented. He didn’t want to get into the particulars of a heat cycle with Potter, but he surely didn’t want to take another shot of that vile Veritaserum stuff either. “It’s really… wet. And uncomfortable. Sex drive  _ is  _ up, makes you a tad desperate, as you’d expect, but nothing that a nice set of toys can’t handle for you in a pinch. Never been knotted in a heat before though, so I wouldn’t know if it would sate me more or not.”

Potter chewed his lip, keeping his scent— charred earth and the barest hint of ozone— carefully neutral. “I see. That’s— uh, good to know. I guess. Your turn.”

“What are ruts like for y— oh.”

Before Draco had even fully finished his question, Potter took a shot. Desperation and the tiniest hint of fear was written across his face, and Draco felt a little guilty.

“That bad, huh?”

Potter nodded. “Taking suppressants like that for so long… it really fucked me up. Now it’s like my body is overcompensating. It’s kind of awful. Actually, the reason I look like so much shit today is because my rut is supposed to start at the weekend. It always makes me kind of… well.” He gestured vaguely to his face. “Terrible.”

“Sounds bloody horrific.” Draco scratched the back of his head. What else was he supposed to say? “Your turn.”

“Have you ever… er,  _ been  _ with an alpha in rut?”

Ordinarily, Draco would have teased him again, but Potter looked decidedly vulnerable— it would be wrong to press him. “Yes, once. Bloody insatiable bloke, too.”

And then, Draco did what was possibly the dumbest thing he had ever done.

“I could help you through one of yours, too, you know. If you wanted. I know having a willing partner makes it easier for some people. If yours are bad, maybe it would help with you too.”

Potter scrambled away from Draco like he had the plague. 

“Malfoy—  _ Draco _ — no.” 

_ Well, ouch.  _ “Alright then, that’s fine, Potter, you don’t have to take it so seriously,” Draco chuckled, trying for humor despite his wounded pride. “I was only offering it, you know, to give you an option.”

Somehow, that only served to make Potter more horrified. “No, look you don’t understand what you’re offering, or why I can’t accept—”

Draco held up his hands— he got the message. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Potter, a no is a no. My pride will survive.”

“Ugh, Malfoy, look— you misunderstand.” Potter looked absolutely tortured, hugging his knees to his chest in a manner that was almost comically child-like. Draco wanted to reach out and stroke that mop of unruly hair, to drag his nails across Potter’s scalp in a way that he knew would leave tingles down Potter's spine— but he restrained himself. Barely. “You are a  _ very  _ attractive bloke, and I mean that, but… I’m not myself in rut.”

Draco’s brows knit together. What was Potter getting at? Wasn’t everyone out of sorts during their mating cycles? “I’m not following you, Potter. In case you weren't aware, it's natural if an alpha acts a little weird when the hormones take over.”

Those lovely green eyes went cold with self-loathing— an emotion Draco knew well enough himself to recognize anywhere— and Potter groaned, putting his face in his hands. “I'm not like most alphas, Malfoy. I’m…  _ violent _ . Out of control. I— I could  _ hurt  _ you.”

Draco couldn’t help it. He outright laughed. 

Fury blazed across Potter’s features— a reaction Draco should have expected, but couldn’t bring himself to take seriously. “Malfoy, I fail to see what is so bloody funny about all this.”

“You? Hurt me?” Draco laughed, swinging his legs off of the edge of the couch. “Potter, when I was your enemy, you couldn’t bear to see me burn to a crisp in that Fiendfyre, even though it was no less than I deserved. You saved my life.”

Potter shook his head. “In rut—”

“I could handle it.” Draco’s reply was swift and final. “You forget who you’re talking to. I may not be Saint Potter, savior of the wizarding world, but I _am_ a powerful wizard in my own right. To suggest that I couldn’t fend off the unwanted advances of an alpha whose senses and faculties are diminished by rut is an insult. I survived a war. We both did. I had The Dark Wanker _in my house._ You used _Sectumsempra_ on me, and yet here I stand, living and breathing. After all that, I think we can both agree that I can handle a little rough-and-tumble in bed, yes?"

At first, Potter looked like he was going to argue, but then his control over his pheromones must have slipped infinitesimally, because as Draco moved a bit closer, searching Potter’s features, a spike of lust rippled through Potter’s scent. Grinning like the cat that caught the canary, but still conscious of the delicacy of the moment, Draco licked his lips and let his own excitement bleed through in his scent before recapping the magical cover he had for his pheromones. A low growl ripped out of Potter’s chest at that, and then his eyelids fluttered shut in frustration— exactly the result Draco had been hoping for.

“You really are something else,” Potter choked out, running a hand through the bird’s nest that was his hair. His cheeks were glowing a soft pink, and Draco knew he’d won.

"Well, yes. Unlike the rest of your boorish Gryffindor friends,  _ I  _ am a Slytherin," Draco smirked. “Capable of subtlety, a sense of timing, and a certain…  _ underhandedness,  _ shall we call it. Now, stop taking the piss and let me feel what you really want.”

Potter let go of his magical scent restraint entirely then, and it took Draco a moment to realize that he was not, in fact, upright any longer, and was instead smashing his face involuntarily against the floor. It was the incredibly strong scent of alpha— of  _ Potter—  _ that had somehow sent Draco sprawling, ass in the air, with the overwhelming coppery tang of ozone in his mouth, and surprisingly… he didn't hate it at all.

Of course, that isn't to say that it wasn't a bit disconcerting. 

The desire, the  _ need _ to submit, the urge to run and hide himself away, to relieve the oppressive sensation of an incoming storm— it was unlike anything Draco had ever experienced. The feeling was somewhere between fear and desire, submission and stupefaction, and Draco couldn't tell if it was adrenaline or primal lust that had the beginnings of slick dripping down his thighs and towards his straining erection. Almost beside himself, Draco keened in pleasure, basking in the glory of that wonderful, terrible scent— but then, distantly, he heard Potter sigh, and just as suddenly as it had come, the scent was swept away, and Draco was able to rock back on his heels, righting himself with a question in his eyes as his gaze met Potter's.

"That's what you asked for," Potter frowned, disheartened. "I— sorry, I was stupid, I should have known better. I  _ did  _ know better and I—"

Draco grabbed his hand— an impulsive decision, but not one he regretted. "Potter, if you apologize for your scent I swear to Merlin I'll hex your cock off." 

Potter's brows knit in confusion. "But— Malfoy, you were just on the floor—"

"Yes," Draco replied, brushing his thumb across Potter's wrist, one of the strongest scent glands on the body of an alpha. "And it was incredible."

"Incredible?"

Potter's confusion was almost laughable. In fact, Draco  _ would  _ have laughed if Potter hadn't seemed so serious. Could it— no, it couldn't  _ possibly  _ be that Potter was serious, could it? 

"I love your scent, Potter," he confessed, allowing his sincerity to shine in his eyes. "It's fascinating and thrilling and  _ wonderful,  _ and I am prepared to physically fight anyone who would say differently."

After a moment of thought, Draco added, "Including you."

"But— it's— everyone says it's like being caught in a lightning storm!"

Draco smirked. "My favorite weather, you know."

Potter frowned, wary. "It's dangerous, Malfoy.  _ I'm  _ dangerous. It's just— not a good idea."

"Scared, Potter?"

In hindsight, that  _ might  _ have been a bit too bold— Potter stood abruptly and yanked Draco to his feet so that they were eye to eye, practically sharing their breath. 

"You never tire of vexing me, do you?" Potter growled, but Draco grinned through the thrill of fear that raced up his spine. 

"I am capable of it, I admit," Draco replied, unapologetic.

“Capable of driving a man bloody mad, you mean,” Potter accused, releasing Draco and folding his arms. “Is there a poncey little pureblood etiquette school where they teach you how to manipulate alpha instinct, or does that just come naturally to you?”

Draco shrugged, but let his expression turn positively wicked. "I'm quite sure I have no idea what you're on about."

Potter shot him a withering glare. "You've been playing with me, offering to help me through my rut, flashing your pheromones and then asking me to show you what I want— and then, to put the cherry on top of it all, you tell me that you find my scent wonderful even after it puts you on the floor. Malfoy, if I didn't know any better, I'd say that you were trying to seduce me!"

Draco licked his lips, his eyes flickering to Potter's just for the hell of it. "Would it be working, then?"

"Don't take the piss with me," Potter warned him, voice hoarse. "I don't take it well, not this close to— to that time."

"I'm not taking the piss," Draco retorted, almost offended. "But I think  _ you  _ might be. For all that Gryffindor bravado, you're a Hufflepuff at your core if you're too afraid of yourself to take a man up on his offer to let you shag him senseless for a week straight."

"Malfoy." The word was a warning and a plea. 

"What are you so afraid of?"

And then it happened. 

Wordless, wandless, Potter cast a spell, and a full Body-Bind held Draco in its clutches. Potter's expression was dark and menacing, and those lovely green eyes were nearly swallowed by the black of those dilated pupils. When Draco tested the strength of the bind, and found it solid and sure— even inebriated, Potter's spellwork was strong and steadfast, and Draco found himself a little hot under the collar when he considered what  _ other  _ uses there might be for a modified version of the spell, made specifically for the bedroom. 

"This is what I'm afraid of," Potter confessed, his expression a thundercloud. "You're helpless like that. I could do anything to you. Kill you. Torture you. Other heinous, unspeakable things. You don't understand what kind of frenzy rut throws me into, and by the time you did, it would be too late."

Draco scoffed. "Helpless? You think  _ I'm  _ helpless?"

Potter was such a curious creature. One moment, he was all intensity and aggression, the next, he was an adorably daft golden retriever, cocking his head to the side. "But… aren't you?"

If Draco were an ordinary wizard, the answer to that might have been yes. As it happened, however, Draco had become rather  _ extra _ ordinary in the last three years. Without a wand, he'd been forced to make do with wandless magic, and thus had discovered a great deal about himself and about the nature of magic— well,  _ his  _ magic at least. And now, under a spell meant to bind, he could test one of his theories.

Closing his eyes, Draco summoned his will— his strong, iron will that bowed to no one and nothing— and he took hold of his magic, expanding and contracting it at an increasingly fast pace until it was thumping up against Potter's spell. Before long, the temperature rose a few degrees with the force of the energy being exerted by the magic, and then  _ crack!  _ Potter's spell shattered against that onslaught of Draco's efforts, shocking the color right off of Potter's face. 

_ Fuck yes! _

"I've been experimenting," Draco said by way of explanation, somehow cool as a cucumber despite his internal excitement as Potter collected his jaw from the floor. "That was quite a lovely test— thank you for the opportunity."

Potter, however, was still as white as a sheet. "That— that shouldn't be possible." 

Draco hummed, secretly basking in the fact that he'd finally been able to shock Potter with magic for once and not the other way around. "Yes, well, clearly it is. I'm working on developing precise control of magic itself, sort of like accidental magic that children use, but only focused by the magnifying glass of experience and resolve rather than that of a wand. Now, I would  _ love  _ to talk magical theory with you however long you like, but I must ask— do you still think I'm helpless now?"

"Ah— well— when you put it that way, I guess not," Potter replied, scratching the back of his head sheepishly. 

"Well then," Draco purred, "where was I?"

Potter swallowed thickly. "I believe you were seducing me."

Draco tutted, but he knew his eyes were betraying his teasing triumph. "I'm quite done with that— I've succeeded, after all. I was talking about the game."

"The game— what? You can't be serious!" Potter looked absolutely in distress. "We were just— and you— but—"

Draco shook his head with what he knew was a right nasty grin. "Silly Potter. I'm very serious. You didn't think I was going to let you pounce on me tonight, did you? Really, give me some credit here— I'm not all that easy. You've seen all you need to see, and so have I. Should the time come and you should so desire, I'll be waiting for your owl. Now, I believe it was my turn, wasn't it?"

Potter stared at him, mouth agape. 

"Potter, you're going to catch flies. Are you ready to answer my question or not?"

"I think this is what Ron meant when he said omegas are bloody terrifying," Harry replied nonsensically, sotto voce. 

Draco rolled his eyes, but pushed the button he knew would get results the fastest. "Perhaps I should go. I don't want to interrupt your private musings, after all, and I have given you an awful lot to think about."

"No!" Potter scrambled to situate himself back on the couch where he had been before. "No, Draco, that's alright, really, I just— I spaced out for a bit, that's all."

At that, Draco beamed like a child on Christmas Day, and Potter's expression melted into one of horror as he realized what he'd said. 

"Oh dear," Draco intoned, voice rich with irony. "So I'm  _ Draco _ now, I see."

"Well, it's about bloody time, innit?" Potter replied, sounding more panicked than self-assured. "I mean, I'd say it should be normal for us to be on a first name basis, really, and since we can't even pretend that our scents didn't say exactly where we both want my knot, I feel like it might be time to— ow!"

Potter was cut off by the pillow Draco had thrown him, and was rubbing his face as though he'd been seriously injured— for Merlin's sake, and everyone thought  _ Draco  _ was a drama queen.

"Oh come on, you big baby, I know that didn't hurt you."

"It's my pride you've hurt, you arse," Potter protested, but then Draco leaned forward ever so quickly and kissed him gently on the jaw— right where Draco's pillow had smacked against his face. The ensuing flush was somehow both hilarious and attractive, and watching Potter splutter over it was even more hilarious and attractive than that. 

"Now then, I've kissed it better," Draco sniffed playfully, relaxing onto his end of the couch. "Can we get on with it now,  _ Harry?" _

Once Potter— Harry— could form complete sentences again, they did indeed get on with it— and all the while, Draco couldn't quite manage to wipe the smug smile off his face.

Perhaps he'd leave Grimmauld in one piece after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poor harry, he doesnt know what he's gotten himself into 👀👀


	4. The Beginning of the End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> K so harry is like, a little violent for like 2 seconds in this chapter? Idk, I personally think it's as mild as it gets, but if you think it could be an issue for you, skip down until you see the three stars :)

Harry was pacing like a caged hippogriff. 

It was Saturday morning, only ten o'clock, when he noticed his shift into rut. It came slowly at first, marked by an insidious frustration, which was then followed by a hormone-induced increase in body temperature— small, easily dismissed things that could be chalked up to a lack of sleep and an excess of booze. Soon enough, however, Harry found himself snarling at his own reflection in the bathroom as he cleaned his hand from where he'd shattered a mug in the kitchen by gripping it too tightly, and it wasn't long after that before he developed a raging, throbbing erection, signaling the arrival of the full force of his rut.

It was exactly as he feared it would be—the urges, the need to claim, to take, and take and take… it was all so strong, just like always. Yesterday night, he'd Floo-called Hermoine in a panic just thinking about how awful it would be— he was terrified by the idea of spinning out of control during his hormonal frenzy and accidentally hurting Draco, in the event that the omega still decided to show up. Regardless of Draco's incredible display of power earlier in the week, Harry was still a danger to himself and to others when he was… like that. He could strangle Draco by accident. Or rip out his throat on purpose. He could take Draco farther than he wanted to go and keep him longer than he wanted to stay, and the mere thought of it was enough to make Harry sick— so yes, he called Hermoine, hoping to get some comfort or encouragement or anything to stop the roiling in his gut.

Instead, he got a lecture. 

Really, Harry should have seen it coming. On some level, he knew it was wrong— wrong, wrong, wrong for him to let himself agree to spending his rut with Draco, to allow Draco to agree to it when he didn't fully understand what he was agreeing to— but to have it thrown in his face by his best friend was painful in a way he hadn't anticipated.

"You can't, Harry," she'd told him with sad eyes. "I know you're saying you fancy him, and that's one problem, but to actually engage in a physical relationship with him… you can't."

"But why?" Harry had asked, despite already knowing the answer, hoping against hope that she would say something, anything else. "If the feelings are there, why should anything else matter? I really— I really care for him, 'Mione."

"Because the fact that he's your job changes everything," she told him, confirming his fears. "It's a conflict of interest with your work, which we knew already, but there is much more at stake here than just career suicide on your part. He thinks that you really were just kind and curious, when in fact you've been playing him for information this whole time— you have no idea what kind of damage that can do to an omega. When he finds out, it'll hurt him more than you could ever imagine."

If Harry had anything to do with it, Draco never would find out, but the admonition hurt all the same. Even though Hermoine was right, it didn't change the fact that Harry wanted Draco, wanted him more than anything he'd ever wanted before in his life— and why should Harry be denied? All of his natural life, he'd been so selfless, always giving and giving and giving, even when there was nothing left for him to lose but his life. Just once, Harry wanted to be selfish. 

And now… now that Harry was in rut, and the anger, the lust, the need was starting to cloud his judgement, there was nothing to tether him to that selflessness, to anchor him to his morals and principles. No, there was only the blazing heat of his skin and the desire to take, use, destroy— today, Harry would have what he wanted, and he wouldn't take no for an answer. In fact, before he was quite conscious of his own actions, he'd scratched out a note on parchment and attached it to Penny's leg sending her off to find Draco, who would hopefully recognize the invitation for what it truly was. 

An order.

Soon, he would have that pretty, perfect, pureblood omega wrecked beneath him. He would take his time, enjoy taking Draco Malfoy apart with lips and tongue and teeth— using, devouring, taking, taking, taking until there was nothing left. The idea of it alone was enough to have Harry pawing at the front of his pants for relief, but he wouldn't touch himself, oh no— not until Draco arrived and was there to see it. 

His restraint in the short while he waited was impeccable— but the moment Harry's Floo flared, he pounced. 

Oh, this omega was perfect— his scent was tart like wine, but twice as sweet, and the alpha in Harry growled his approval, pinning Malfoy fast against the bricks of the fireplace with a sickening crack. He struggled, trying to get away, but Harry was too strong. 

“Potter, this is ridiculous, that hurt a bit and you need to get off of me and take me to a proper bed—”

Malfoy was talking too much. Harry moved to strike him, but the omega was far too fast. Harry’s palm caught open air instead of a pale cheek, and in a moment’s time, their positions were reversed, with Malfoy pinning Harry to the fireplace instead of vice versa. Pain blossomed along the bottom of his skull where it collided with the brick, but Harry found himself smiling nonetheless— this omega was fast, and strong. A good potential mate. 

“Now you listen to me, Potter,” the omega growled, pressing his forearm against Harry’s windpipe. “I’m not above a little roughhousing, but you will not ever strike me— in anger or otherwise— or Salazar help me, I’ll stomp on your face exactly like I did on the train in sixth year. Is that clear?” 

Harry heard Malfoy rather distantly, but his eyes were fixated on Malfoy’s lips, and the way they moved to shape the words he spoke. Instead of answering, Harry slid a hand up to cup Malfoy’s jaw and kissed him possessively— that must have been answer enough for Malfoy, because the omega kissed him back with fervor and ferocity.

Merlin, but Malfoy— no, Draco— could kiss. Just a few brushes of their lips and Harry felt hot and desperate, needy in a way that he couldn’t recall ever feeling before. He was hard, so hard, and when Draco’s teeth grazed his lips, he was almost afraid of popping his knot in his denims. The only thing that stopped him from doing so was the infuriating lack of contact that Draco was somehow maintaining, and the brilliant scent of omega arousal, serving to calm and focus Harry’s energy on what would eventually relieve the pressure, the need burning inside him. 

He needed to knot this omega.

“Harry,” Draco murmured against his lips, and Harry shivered at the use of his given name. “Take me to bed.”

Harry didn’t need to be told twice. Although he and Draco were of a height, Draco was lean and fine-boned— with broad muscles all over, Harry had no trouble lifting Draco by his bum and carrying him upstairs to the master bedroom. All the way up, Draco was pressing biting kisses to his neck and jaw, undoubtedly leaving purpled marks in his wake as he sucked mercilessly at Harry’s skin. 

“My, you taste lovely,” Draco purred, his teeth scraping across the lobe of Harry’s ear. “I wonder— would you last if I sucked your cock now, or would you blow your load before you ever got near my arse?”

Quite against his will, Harry let out a whine, and Draco laughed— not mockingly, but instead, perhaps, genuinely joyful. All laughter was over, however, when Draco’s back hit the mattress, and Harry’s eyes raked over Draco’s form, lucid enough for the first time in their encounter to really appreciate the view. 

Draco was dressed in a lovely silk shirt, clearly Muggle, but somehow charmed to be the impossible shade of the midnight sky, rolling and shining as Draco shifted onto his elbows to look at Harry. It was a lovely color, truly, one that brought out the starlight-silver in the gray of Draco’s eyes and the pulsing blue of his veins— no doubt, that piece alone was worth more than Harry’s entire wardrobe. His black slacks were surely double that, and his shoes (was that dragonhide Harry spied?) were likely double that. So pretty and expensive, his little omega, dolled up as though for a runway show— the wrapping on him was so lovely, Harry was almost loath to rid him of it. 

Almost.

Buttons flew as Harry ripped the shirt open, exposing the smooth expanse of Draco’s chest to Grimmauld’s chilly air. Immediately, the pink, puckered scars from Sectumsempra so long ago caught Harry’s eye, and sick, heady fascination filled his chest, bubbling up through his throat and filling his mouth with the awful taste of arousal and regret. His fingers traced the lines of the old lacerations, then pressed into them, and Draco gasped as Harry’s other hand found his erection, straining hard against those expensive black slacks. 

“Tell me,” Harry said, feeling a bit out-of-body. “Do you mind too terribly that I’ve left these marks? Marred you, forever?”

“I never minded,” Draco replied, voice shaky as Harry palmed his cock and played lightly at one of Draco’s nipples with his tongue. “You were only doing what you had to. I never dared hope that I would outlive the war— a few scars are nothing.”

Harry paused his ministrations, crawling on top of Draco to press their clothed cocks together. “I never apologized.”

“I never expected you to.”

Draco slid his hands down the back of Harry’s jeans to grab his arse and grind them together, and that was the end of that. 

As they removed each other’s clothes, Harry finally became lost to his rut entirely, sinking deeper and deeper into the scarlet haze of his desires. Later, Harry would realize that he’d physically flipped Draco over and buried his face in the omega’s ass until his entire face was covered in slick and Draco was near to tears— but the next thing he knew after that conversation, he was buried to the hilt in Draco’s arse, slamming in fast and hard as Draco cried out beneath him. 

“Fuck, Harry!” Draco keened, voice hoarse, and Harry leaned down so that they were back-to-chest, craving the feeling of Draco’s skin against his own. “I— I’m— oh, oh, oh.” 

Draco came hard against the sheets, completely untouched, and the pulsing of his ass around Harry’s cock was so magnificent that it tipped Harry right over the edge. He came harder than he ever had in his life, his knot swelling to lock them together and keep Harry’s cum where it belonged. 

Exhaustion washed over Harry as soon as his orgasm left him— he wanted to say something, anything to Draco with his newfound clarity, but he found himself drifting off, lulled by Draco’s breathing and the wine-sweet scent of omega. There would be time, surely, upon waking, to talk. Harry just needed a little rest, a small respite, and then he could talk, have a conversation. Just a small nap, that was all. 

***

When Harry woke, it was to the sensation of lips wrapped around his cock.

As he sat up and opened his eyes, he was greeted by the absolutely heady image of Draco Malfoy’s head bobbing up and down on his length, sucking Harry like he was born to it. Those impeccable pureblood manners of his seemed to have flown right out the window— Draco looked filthy and wanton with his pale throat stretched open, and he gagged ever so slightly as he choked himself on Harry’s (admittedly large) alpha cock.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” Draco rasped after pulling off with a wet pop. “Are you going to try and kill me again, or was that a first-day sort of thing?” 

Harry blanched, and it was then that he noticed the hand-shaped bruises on Draco’s hips, standing in dark relief on the omega’s ivory skin. Guilt began to choke Harry as he wondered what else he had done, how he’d hurt Draco in the throes of his rut— this always fucking happened, he always ended up hurting someone, destroying something, this was why he always, always spent his ruts alone because he couldn’t be trusted to handle an actual human being when he was so— so— 

Draco’s voice cut straight through his panic. “Could you stop having a crisis while I’ve got my hand on your knob? It’s a bit off-putting.” 

“But I’ve hurt you,” Harry replied wretchedly, gesturing to Draco’s hips. “I knew this would happen, and I still let you come over and put yourself at risk. Forgive me, Draco, I’m such an idiot.”

To Harry’s infinite shock, Draco snorted.

“I hate to break it to you, Saint Potter, but I gave as good as I got,” he smirked, eyes raking over Harry’s form. “And you haven’t left a single mark on me that I didn’t want you to leave.”

An exhilarating thrill of arousal shot up Harry’s spine at those words, and Draco’s grin became positively feral. 

“Although, we probably should have talked about some things before dashing headlong into this,” Draco mused, still lazily, maddeningly pumping Harry’s throbbing erection with his fist. “But as I figure, we have about an hour before the next wave of your rut will hit, so why don’t I finish you off here so we can talk, yes?”

Harry was powerless to disagree. He nodded, and Draco went back to sucking him off, obscenely talented in the art of driving Harry insane— with pleasure or otherwise. Mercilessly, Draco downed him again and again, deepthroating him all the way down until his nose was pressed into the dark curls of Harry’s pubes and up again, only pausing to suck and lap at Harry’s balls while his hands took over. There was so much sensation, so much that it was overwhelming, and all it took was one particularly hard suck accompanied by a hand fondling Harry’s balls to have him coming down Draco’s throat. 

“There,” Draco smiled, his lips red and raw, “All better.”

With surprisingly gentle hands, Draco pried Harry’s fists away from the sheets that they were holding in a death-grip and placed them in his own, the skin-on-skin contact providing an anchor to reality for Harry. Almost compulsively, Harry surged forward to kiss this oddly tender omega, and Draco welcomed him, straddling his lap and pushing him back down onto the pillows to support his head. 

“We’re s’posed to talk now,” Harry noted rather distantly as Draco ran a hand through his rat’s nest of curls. “About… stuff.”

“Hmm, yes, very eloquent,” Draco teased, but there was none of the usual venom in his tone. In its place there was a sort of fondness, and Harry trailed his hands up Draco’s sides, unable to resist the urge to feel the omega under his fingertips. “I suppose I should tell you all the things I’ll let you do to me and all the things I won’t. You likely won’t remember it later, but I can handle you then, and it’s apparently important to you that we go over this— so, are you ready to employ all three of your brain cells to pay attention?”

Harry grinned, feeling loopy from his post-coital high. “Hermoine has two of them, but I’ll do my best with the one that’s left.”

“There’s a dear,” Draco laughed, cupping Harry’s cheek in his hand. “Now, as we’ve talked about before, I’m perfectly fine with being rough in the bedroom. I like to feel it the morning after, if you catch my meaning.”

Harry swallowed thickly— it would be a miracle if he survived this conversation without having some kind of attack. 

“In light of that, biting, choking, scratching, face-fucking, spanking, and restraints are all on the table. However, as you learned earlier, I don’t do well with blows to the face— they bring back memories that I’d rather not revisit. Other than that, most anything is on the table. How does that sound?”

Harry’s mouth was absolutely dry, and his voice seemed to have left him, so he did the only thing he could think of to respond— he sat up and kissed Draco soundly on the mouth, his hands resting on either side of Draco’s face.

“Shower with me,” he said as they broke apart for air, and Draco’s eyes lit up like fairy lights. 

“You’ll never want to shower alone after I get finished with you,” Draco promised as he dismounted Harry’s thighs, pulling the alpha along with him. “I’ll show you exactly what we Slytherins did in the dungeons while you Gryffindores were sleeping in your beds like prudes.”

That was certainly a topic Harry wanted to discuss at length— he put a mental pin in it, hoping he’d be able to retrieve it after Draco and his rut had wrung him dry.

***

By the end of his rut, Harry was ready to thank every Slytherin he knew for their filthy sex games at Howgarts— a week after that fateful weekend, he was more hickey than human, and Draco had taxed every one of his muscles with seemingly endless impossible positions. Along the way, Harry had learned a great many things, and not all of them were of a sexual nature (though sexual lessons did take up quite a bit of their time). For example, he learned that Draco took his coffee black with honey, and that despite his prickly Malfoy exterior, Draco could be quite sweet when he wanted to be, rubbing soothing potions into Harry’s skin after he’d been pushed to his limit. He also learned that Draco was actually quite brilliant, and showed quite an aptitude for magical theory, even if his pillow talk was somewhat too academic— and, perhaps most interestingly, he found that Draco had a gift.

Draco’s control over his pheromones— and by extension, Harry— was truly stunning.

Around the third day of Harry’s rut, Draco had asked him for permission to experiment a bit. At first, Harry had refused, but upon hearing Draco’s explanation, he decided (against his better judgement) to allow it. What Draco proposed— allowing Harry to fly off the chain a bit in order to see if a fluctuation in Draco’s pheromones could reign him back in— was lunacy. It was positively mad, risking himself like that, but somehow, it actually worked. Well, according to Draco it did. Harry had been too far gone into rut to remember it, but according to the devious omega, Harry had turned downright docile after Draco did his wonky pheromone thing, enganging them in what Draco termed the “most gentle, sensual rut-fuck” of his life. 

From then on out, Harry’s violent nature was never even a problem. 

“I wonder if it would work outside of rut,” Draco pondered, snuggled up to Harry the last morning of his cycle. 

“What?” 

Harry couldn’t see Draco, but he knew those pretty gray eyes were rolling. “The whole controlling you via pheromones thing.”

“Hm, maybe. ‘M not in a hurry to find out though,” Harry chuckled, shamelessly grabbing a handful of Draco’s ass. “Knowing you, you’d use it to every advantage you could if it worked.”

Draco laughed— genuinely laughed, Merlin, what a laugh— and nipped playfully at Harry’s chest. “Scared, Potter?”

“Of what you could do to me? Certainly,” he chuckled, kissing Draco’s forehead. “You’re a force of nature, Draco Malfoy.”

Another thing Harry had learned was that Draco loved to be praised. He practically glowed any time Harry gave him a compliment, and now was no exception. 

“If you’re not careful, I may never let you leave this bed.”

Harry grinned despite the nervous lurch in his stomach. He’d been working up the nerve to say something almost all week, but his time was running out— it was now or never. “I’d better tread lightly, then. I was sort of hoping you would come out to lunch with me. Or to the cinema. Or something.”

Draco sat up, and worry gnawed at Harry’s gut when he saw the stricken expression on his face. 

“You— Harry Potter, are you asking me on a date?”

Harry tried for a smile, but he was sure it came out pained. “Well, yes.”

“But— Harry, look— Merlin fuck, you’re mad as a bloody hatter!” Draco spluttered, looking more and more panicked by the minute. “You’re Saint Potter, the Chosen one and all that rot, and I’m— I’m an ex-Death Eater! The papers would go rabid. You can’t have really thought this through— they’ll eat you alive! I won’t let them rake your name through the mud I myself have made, Harry, I won’t.”

“Are you seriously rejecting me because you’re worried about my reputation?” Harry couldn’t help himself— a little laughter bubbled up in his chest and he let it out, much to Draco’s dismay. “That might be the sweetest, most selfless thing you’ve done recently.”

Darkness swept over Draco’s expression like a thundercloud. “This isn’t funny. I’m serious, Harry, I— I couldn’t bear it. They’d never let us have any peace. It would drive you away and out of my life and I won’t— I can’t— it would be too much.”

“You want me in your life?” 

“Potter, your listening comprehension skills are fucking abysmal,” Draco growled, but Harry ignored his protesting and pulled him into a brusing kiss. 

“Fuck the papers,” Hary murmured, hands roaming as he mentally added ‘and fuck Robards, the Aurors, the mission, and everyone and everything else too’. “You make me happy, Draco. I want to give us a shot, and if the only thing concerning you is the opinions of the gossip columns, then I say we treat them like mushrooms and give this a shot.”

Draco’s brow furrowed adorably. “Mushrooms?”

“Feed ‘em shit and keep them in the dark,” Harry grinned, and Draco pulled him forward by his hair to kiss him, wild and unrestrained. 

“You— are— a— fool— of— a— Gryffindor,” he told Harry between kisses, and they both giggled as Harry nipped Draco’s lips cheekily. 

“Is that a yes to the date?”

“You promise to try and keep this below the press’s radar?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “To the best of my ability, I suppose. Though I’ll miss out on having you on my arm to snog at will at Ministry functions.”

“And is this to be an open thing, you know, casual or whatever, or is this…” Draco thought for a moment. “Real?”

“I don’t play well with others,” Harry admitted, reddening a bit at how much of a boneheaded alpha he sounded like. “So, I would like— if you wanted— to, erm date you. Exclusively, I mean. If that’s okay. And I’d like to at least tell our friends, those we trust, that sort of thing. Sound alright?”

The smile that lit Draco’s face was incomparable to anything Harry had ever seen. “That’s more than alright.”

“So… yes?”

Draco kissed him once more, gently, sweetly, and smiled against his lips.

“Yes, you brute, I’ll date you.”

Harry had never been happier to be called a brute in all his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i desperately wish i had the $ and brainpower to commission someone to draw Draco in his pretty blue shirt :( he's just so p r e t t y


	5. Tits Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i apologize in advance for the owwie :(

**One year later**

“Would you pass me the salt, love?” Harry asked, nodding to the shaker in front of Draco. “These mashed potatoes are positively bland.” 

Draco slid the shaker with a sly grin. “Makes you miss France a bit, doesn’t it?”

They had just come back from Marseilles, where Draco had insisted they take a holiday and visit his mother. Harry nodded with a spacey grin, likely thinking back to the exquisite cuisine Draco had introduced him to… and the various  _ ways  _ he'd been introduced to said cuisine. 

"France has its perks, that's for sure. I already miss your mother's doting."

Draco blushed. The visit had gone splendidly, far better than Draco would have ever dared hope. After all, his relationship with Harry was still new (only a year in), and, having been born from years of hatred and strife, it was a rather controversial phenomenon. Given that, and the fact that Harry was a sworn enemy of the Malfoy family in years prior, it would have been more than reasonable for Narcissa to hex them silly for being so foolish. In fact, as a rare female alpha, she had every legal right to disinherit Draco from what little there was left of the Malfoy fortune and show him just how serious an offense it was to go traipsing 'round the continent with some frumpy half-blood alpha that, in her opinion, didn't care _who_ he stuck his knot in. 

But that didn't happen. 

Instead, Harry— the charming git— had brought Narcissa a bouquet and prepared a bloody speech like a proper pureblood suitor. And oh, had Narcissa loved that— she'd fawned endlessly over them  _ and  _ the bouquet, which featured her namesake. To Draco's infinite shock, his mother had welcomed his alpha into her home, insisting that they cancel their hotel reservations so they could stay with her in the villa, "like family", she said. She wasn't even angry that they'd gone ahead with the consummation of the Mating Bite without the consent of either of Draco's alpha guardians— instead, she was proud of Draco for taking initiative in his own life, and thankful to Harry for making her son smile again. 

Yes, indeed— it could have gone a lot worse than an embarrassing presentation of ‘baby Draco’ pictures, Draco is willing to admit.

“In fact, we might have to go back,” Harry added with a nervous laugh, taking a swig of his beer. “I can still feel your father’s disapproving stare from here.”

Draco clasped Harry’s hand warmly. Earlier in the afternoon, they'd tested their luck with a visit to Draco's father. Thankfully, Harry’s position as an Auror got them a visitor’s pass… but as it happened, their luck had been found lacking from then on.

“Sorry, darling, that doesn’t ever really go away, no matter how far you go,” Draco drawled, aiming for casual and hitting closer to exhausted.

Harry nodded, and Draco couldn’t help but notice the way his dark, unruly curls bounced in solidarity. "I wanted his approval. I know it's stupid, especially after all that stuff he said about you, but I wanted it. I wanted to give you what you deserve, but I couldn't keep my cool when he called you— those things. I'm sorry, Draco, love, I really am."

Draco shook his head, thinking back to how often he’d sought his father’s approval over the span of his life. His money, his gifts, his orders, Draco had received often, but Lucius' approval… that had been rare indeed. Draco knew that Harry wanted very badly to be the best mate, the best alpha, the best man he could be for Draco, and he had tried so very hard to convince Lucius of the depth of his feelings, but Harry, bless him, didn’t understand what it was to be a Malfoy. 

Feelings, as Lucius liked to put it, had very little to do with anything, in the grand scheme of things— asking Harry, whose whole world was based on his feelings and the feelings of others, to conform to such a ridiculous notion would be like asking a fish to breathe out of water.

It was impossible for Harry to be a man that Lucius would approve of. Draco wouldn’t have it any other way. 

"I don’t need his approval," Draco replied evenly, holding Harry's soft green gaze with the quicksilver of his own. "And neither do you.”

When Harry looked like he was about to disagree, Draco took the hand he was holding and pressed it to his neck, over the mark that had faded to a bright pink scar during their stay in France. The mark Harry had left on him during Draco’s last heat— the mark Draco had begged him to leave.

“You didn’t need Father’s approval for this,” Draco said, his voice low and sultry even though he was fighting back a shiver as Harry’s pupils dilated and his alpha scent rippled with pride. “You only needed mine.”

_ “Draco,”  _ Harry groaned, and Draco let his foot trail up his alpha’s leg right there in the middle of the restaurant. 

"Yes, that  _ is  _ my name,” Draco grinned, coy. “I'm glad you've moved past your usual monosyllabic grunting— now maybe we can try for something a little more complex, yes?"

It was gentle teasing, all fondness and no friction— Harry smiled brilliantly, shining brighter than the lights of the restaurant. 

"I love you, you great spoilt arse," he chuckled. "How's that for polysyllabic?"

Draco pursed his lips. "Well, I suppose that if you count all the words together, it's polysyllabic, but individually—"

"I will put you over my knee right here in this restaurant, you brat," Harry laughed, yanking his hand back so he could continue eating. "Tell me you love me, my Draco.”

Draco’s heart had never felt so full. Here he was, at a restaurant in Muggle London, sharing a meal with the most powerful wizard in the world— with his  _ mate _ — who was staring so lovingly at him with those wild green eyes, expectantly awaiting affirmation of Draco’s feelings. As if  _ Draco  _ was the one who had  _ Harry  _ on a string. How silly.

“I love you, my Harry,” he replied, and it was the truth. 

Draco Malfoy irreversibly, incontestably,  _ idiotically _ loved Harry Potter. He was a raving lunatic for the bugger, had been forever.

Perhaps that was the problem. 

_ “Expelliarmus!” _

Draco reacted. He would know that voice anywhere— he had been comforted by that voice in the Slytherin common rooms on nights when he missed his parents as a first year, had sang alongside it as he was teaching everyone to sing Weasley Is Our King— but it didn’t matter, because he leapt between Harry and the spell anyways. Omega Draco may be, but weak he was not; for he would die before Harry, would take his dying breath at his mate’s feet, before he allowed anyone else to hurt Harry ever again. 

Not even Pansy Parkinson, his best friend and life-long confidante.

“You  _ bastard! _ ” Pansy screamed, tears rolling off of her red, swollen cheeks, obviously electing to ignore the fact that Draco had been thrown against the far wall in front of a Muggle audience via her spell. “I’m going to fucking  _ kill you  _ Potter, you heartless,  _ soulless  _ shit!”

In an instant, Harry was on his feet, wand in hand, but Draco had always been too fast for his own good— once more, he stood between Harry and Pansy, the two people he loved most in all the world. 

“Pansy, sweetness,” Draco said, keeping his voice low and gentle, as though she were a cornered animal. “I would love to know what Harry has done since last week’s brunch to deserve this type of treatment from you.”

At that, Pansy seemed to wilt a little bit, her rage momentarily overcome by her sorrow. “Oh, Draco, if you only knew— ”

“Parkinson, wait!”

Another familiar voice— Hermoine Granger and Ronald Weasley were hot on Pansy’s heels, turning the corner into the restaurant at breakneck pace.

“Give me one reason why I should.” Pansy’s vehemence was back, and her wand was trained straight over Draco’s shoulder at Harry. “Give me  _ one good reason  _ why I should stay my hand or I swear on Hogwart’s hallowed ground and Merlin’s crusty balls that I will hex his head  _ clean fucking off! _ ” 

Hermoine, who had surprisingly become quite close with Draco during his courtship with Harry, swallowed thickly, her hair as wild and messy as the situation. From her expression, Draco could tell that whatever this was, it wasn’t good— even, perhaps, worse that it had first appeared.

“Because someone has to tell him,” Hermoine replied as Ronald stepped in front of her, his beat instincts to  _ protect, support  _ evidently kicking into overdrive at the tension in the room. “And I think he would rather it be you than one of us. That can't happen if you land yourself in Azkaban for killing Harry.”

“Tell me what?” Draco demanded, hazarding a glance over his shoulder at Harry, only to find his mate with his wand lowered and eyes downcast. “Come, now, surely we’ve moved past all this—”

“I thought so too,” Pansy interjected, her heartbreak written in her small, dark eyes. “I really was starting to like you,  _ Auror  _ Potter. ” 

Draco was starting to get irritated. His delicate omega sensibilities recoiled at the strife in the room, and the potential danger to his mate made him a little ‘trigger happy’, as Harry had taken to calling it. “Will someone please tell me what the  _ bloody hell  _ is going on before I lose my mind?” 

It was that very instant that Draco noticed a torn and crumpled piece of parchment shoved into the front of Pansy’s shirt. Cautiously lowering her wand, Pansy pulled out the parchment with shaking hands and began to read. 

“To Auror Potter,” Pansy began, her voice quaking ever so slightly. “From the Head of the Auror Department, Gawain Robards. You are assigned to the Undercover Unit of the Auror Department, for the purpose of obtaining information related to one Draco Malfoy and his immediate family. The assignment will begin on the following Monday, the duration of which is indeterminate. The termination of the assignment will be upon the presentation of proof beyond a reasonable doubt that the mark is no longer under orders or influence of Dark Wizards and is no longer a threat to the Wizarding World.”

Pansy paused a moment to wipe away a tear, then turned to look at Draco like a woman torn to pieces.

“Signed Gawain Robards, Kingsley Shacklebolt,” she finished, her voice finally cracking as her tears overtook her. “I’m sorry Draco, I’m so sorry.”

And just like that, Draco’s world came tumbling down around his ears. All the strength seemed to drain from his body, and his pulse hammered in his ears— it was almost as though he had been plunged head-first underwater with no way to the surface. Seemingly in slow motion, he turned, his recovered wand slipping from his hands, to look at Harry, his sweet, precious,  _ beloved  _ Harry. 

"Tell me this is a lie," Draco heard himself say as he lost himself in the chartreuse of his mate's eyes.

Draco kept waiting for Harry to stammer some sort of explanation, to rush to defend himself, but he merely shook his head. 

“I can't, Draco.” Harry looked so lovely in the light, Draco noticed, all golden skin and thick, corded muscle that rippled with every move he made. "I'm sorry."

The Bond between them wavered frightfully, feeling not unlike a sharp, bony finger poking roughly in the center of Draco's chest. 

"Is— is this real?"

Draco touched his own face, but felt nothing.

"Draco, love, I'm sorry, there's no excuse for it, but—"

Ah. There it was. The clarity that Draco had been searching for finally sliced through him like a hot knife through butter. Surely, all this was a misunderstanding. It had to be. A person couldn't  _ fake  _ what he felt for Harry, what Harry felt for  _ him _ ! They just weren't asking the right questions. 

"Harry, no, it's alright, just— the mission is over, right?"

Harry paused, worrying his lip. "I— look, this isn't what it seems—"

Draco was getting tired of this. "Is the case closed, Potter?"

At the use of his surname, Harry jolted. Those beautiful eyes flashed with hurt, but Draco couldn't bring himself to care until he'd gotten a straight answer. 

"Is it or isn't it?"

Harry shook his head. "No, Draco. It isn't closed. The investigation is still pending."

Everything went cold, and Draco felt sick. 

"Get out."

His voice was so quiet that he barely heard himself, but Harry must have heard something, because the Bond between them was trembling. 

"Draco, sweetheart, I'm so sorry—"

"Get out  _ now. _ "

The light bulbs above their heads began to flicker with the force of Draco's emotional magic, and Harry backed away slowly. Draco could feel Harry's distress as acutely as though it were his own— or was it Draco’s to begin with?— but he couldn't bring himself to care about anything but his own racing heart and roiling stomach.

Distantly, Draco was aware that Harry was walking away, pulled along by Ron and Hermoine, who looked appropriately miserable. As soon as they were out of sight, pain bloomed in Draco's kneecaps— it appeared that he had fallen, though he hadn't noticed the change until the moment he'd collided with the floor. Thankfully, Pansy was fast enough to catch him before he collapsed entirely, and she held him there, crying into his shirt as she told him how sorry she was, how much she loved him, and what a fool they had all been. For all Pansy cried, though, Draco himself couldn't muster a single tear. 

Perhaps he was too numb to feel any pain, or maybe Pansy was just feeling it all in his stead. 

"I'm going to take you to Narcissa," Pansy told him blearily, as Draco feared his legs were about to cramp from staying in one position for so long. "Being separated from her mate herself, maybe she'll know what to do. Is that okay, Draco?"

Draco nodded. Nothing was  _ actually  _ okay, but he was aware that he was making quite a scene, which was rather unbecoming for a Malfoy— and besides, France had lovely beaches. Surely, he could find a suitable section of the ocean to walk into before the week was out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC- the first chapter in the next work of the series is up, I'll fix the owwie!!!! <3


End file.
